


Táim Sínte ar do Thuama

by Altenprano



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Maybe - Freeform, Oneshot, S3 spoilers, branson, lady sybil - Freeform, post-death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:25:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altenprano/pseuds/Altenprano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While visiting Sybil's grave, Tom finds himself reflecting on the love of his life. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Táim Sínte ar do Thuama

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey. If I did, there would be some changes, believe me. Also, this is my first time writing about Tom Branson, so pardon any (totally unintended) OOC-ness, as well as my first time (in a very long time) writing in the present (ish) tense.   
> This oneshot is inspired by the Irish folk song, "Táim Sínte ar do Thuama ," (I Am Streched On Your Grave) from which this piece takes the title. I do not own that either.   
> As always, feel free to leave critiques, comments, questions, and concerns, and I hope you enjoy!

   “Good afternoon Sybil.” 

   “ _Good afternoon Tom_ ,” she says, her eyes lighting up at his voice, and a small, lazy smile spreading across her lips.

   “It’s been a while since I last came by, but things have been quite hectic over at Downton.”

   She laughs, and her smile widens. “ _Our darling Sybbie isn’t the cause, I hope._ ”

   He shakes his head. “Not at all, my darling. She’s very well-behaved, and she and George get along like the best of friends.”

   “ _That’s lovely. I’m sure she’ll grow up to be a wonderful young woman, just like her--_ ”

     “Mother,” Tom finishes, sadness creeping into his voice, though his expression remains stoic, even in the presence of his wife. “She looks just like you, she does. She looks like you so much that I hardly believe she’s mine too. All I see is you when the two of us are playing in the nursery.” 

   There is no answer. 

   The clouds overhead have darkened since Tom Branson arrived at the village cemetery, a bouquet of wildflowers-- violets and daisies, Sybil’s favorite-- in hand, and now they threaten rain. The grey sky that had been lingering since breakfast time didn’t faze him the slightest-- since Sybil’s death, every sky had been grey to him, even in the height of summer-- and he hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, not for the short walk down to the village and back, so what did it matter? The rain falls in a steady drizzle, striking the brim of his hat and dripping in front of his face. It soaks the stone that marks his wife’s final resting place, darkening the soil beneath the grass, and it isn’t long until it comes down harder, making a loud tapping noise as it lands on his suit, leaving behind dark speckles on the fabric. 

   Despite the near-torrential downpour, he doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on the monument that now marks where Lady Sybil Crawley, the love of his life, lies, next to her brother-in-law, whose grave is still covered in open dirt, and will be, with winter well on its way. His lip trembles, and he is tempted to cry out, begging for an answer about why his Sybil, his darling, darling Sybil, had to be torn from him after all they had been through together, when it all seemed to be coming together and going right for the unlikely pair. 

   They had been an unlikely pair, hadn’t they? Him, the practical, political-minded chauffeur, and her, the youngest daughter of an earl, so idealistic and naive that Branson had found it almost laughable when they first met. He’d mistaken her interest in women’s rights and politics as the phase all young women went through, when they wanted to shock and scandalize their parents without actually having any real interest in such things. But oh, how she had proved him wrong, and, admittedly, he’d been hoping she would. He’d loved her interest in politics, along with her gentle soul and tender nature, something that set her apart from the rest of her family by miles, almost, and, while he told himself it was childish and wrong to love his employer’s daughter, some part of him had known she loved him too, that she didn’t care about the divisions created by class, nationality, and even religion, to an extent, and he was glad now that it had been right.

    All of their struggles, between marrying Sybil in a respectable manner, living in Dublin, with the constant threat of Tom’s arrest hanging over them, and finally, Sybil’s pregnancy, had led to the happiest moment of Tom’s life: the birth of his daughter. In that one moment, he had been so sure that they were finally reaching the calm in the storm, that Sybbie would be able to grow up surrounded by the peace and quiet that surrounded Downton, where he and Sybil were to raise her, seeing as Ireland was no longer an option if Tom desired to remain in good standing with his father-in-law. Sybil would have been the perfect mother, he just knew it, and she would help him not doubt himself as he attempted to be as good a father to their little girl as his father had been to him. He’d never doubted that, though now there would never be a chance to prove it, would there? He was all Sybbie had, both father and mother, and, if it weren’t for Lady Mary and Mrs. Crawley’s help, he didn’t know if he would be able to do what Sybil would have wanted. 

     Saying one more good-bye to his wife, the now-soaked Tom Branson turns and leaves the churchyard, head ducked against the rain as he trudges back to Downton Abbey, promising Sybil that he’ll come visit tomorrow, and that he’ll bring Sybbie if he gets the chance.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
